I was pretty disgusted to find today that Tesco are sending 5,000 tons of leftover, unsold, out of date meat a year to be burned to generate electricity for up 600 homes.

Now I'm not a vegetarian at the moment. Sometimes I don't eat meat for a long time, especially in India, where vegetarian food is delicious and meat is not missed. Living with my family, I don't get to choose the type of meat I eat, I eat what is fed to the whole family. That includes meat from the local supermarket. When we return to India I will stop buying, cooking and ordering meat again.

So if I'm disgusted, I can imagine how the 'real' vegetarians feel. VIVA(Vegetarians International Voice for Animals) campaigners are outraged. I can see where they are coming from. I wouldn't want my home powered by mass produced, dead cows leftover from our greedy society.

I only planned to write a post to let others know. That was until I googled the article I had read in the 'Daily Mail' and came up with a whole list of articles criticising the 'vegetarians'!

One such blog post really 'got my goat'... so much so, I left a comment. Where do these people get their morals?

Tesco criticised by vegetarians for using waste meat to generate electricity

"Here we go again! The bloody do-gooder vegetarians have found something else to whinge about. Tesco reduce the landfill waste that they create by using the leftover meat to generate electricity. Not only does this save landfill space but it also stops the rats from getting bigger and stronger by denying the vermin food. Good for Tesco, keep up the good work. Why not drop a few vegetarians into the mincer and burn those bleeding heart liberals to generate even more power? Bloody vegetarians have made their choice and I don't have a problem with them not eating meat. However, stop trying to police the world by denying us normal people the right to use meat as we see fit."

My comment...

"Here we go again! Ignorant, uneducated people like you are trashing the earth as you live in your selfish egotistical world. I am not a vegetarian. I eat meat. It takes millions of tonnes of water, electricity and toxic emissions to produce a few fat cows for us to eat. If you hadn't noticed global warming and climate change happening around you, then wake up. Your selfish kind are stealing fresh water from the mouths of innocent children, stealing fresh air to pay for your own pollution levels and stealing the land and trees that this earth needs to survive, to give prime property to meat factories so you can fill your stomach at Tescos. Look at the bigger picture before you start to praise multi national companies for their 'moral sense'... Try spending 90 minutes of your time educating yourself by watching this... "

I've just stumbled across a new blog, thanks to one of my subscribers, angel whispers. Although there's nothing eco, green or sustainable about it, it's truly scrumptious!

Interior design, Indian style. Bhavna Bhatnagar has jumped right into my dreams and recorded them in her blog 'An Indian Summer'.

In my perfect world, where we all live simply and happily, I would be swanning around barefoot in a pretty little place surrounded by swaying coconut trees and beautiful vivid colours, drinking freshly squeezed watermelon juice.

"The Big Green Gathering is an award winning festival. It features just about all you can image in the areas of sustainability, organic and eco-friendly living. It’s THE festival for entertainment and education for sustainability. From music, farming, crafts, ethical campaigns, permaculture, markets, fairground fun, sustainable homes, organic food, a village green kids area, green enterprise and business fields this festival has all the resources to learn and enjoy green living."

I haven't been to a festival for years. I finally decided it was time to go, Angel is old enough to enjoy it, we had a group of six of us and two little girls, one large tipi and lots of fun to be had.

We chose the Big Green Gathering, because it is the largest 'Green' festival in Europe and of course we wanted to support this. It is also child friendly and music shuts down at 12am, giving you at least some chance of a good nights sleep.

The festival is generated by solar and wind power and every possible eco way of running you could think of. It's been going for the last 15 years and every year becomes more and more eco friendly.

Hindu devotees observe a solar eclipse through specially-designed viewing glasses as they take holy dips in the Sangam, the confluence of the Ganges, Yamuna and the mythical Sarawati River, in Allahabad, India

"[TEHRAN BUREAU] I am an Iranian and I love my country but what has been taking place here in the past few days is so wrong that I can no longer remain silent.

People are scared and want to know the truth about the events happening in their country but it is pointless to look to state media for news as it hardly reflects anything related to the ongoing crisis.

The bits and pieces of information thrown our way all tell the same story ‘a group of hooligans are trying to upset peace but the situation is under control’, ‘ elements of foreign countries are attempting to stage a velvet revolution but they have been identified and detained’, and “thugs are trashing the city but intelligence forces have identified them and everything is under control’.

Before the revolution in Iran, the state media refused to show street protests and continued broadcasting mundane programs because everything was ‘fine and dandy’ there was no such thing as protesters being killed on the streets, no such thing as police beating angry rioters. In the world of the state broadcaster, Iran had no protesters, every single Iranian was a loyal subject and protesters were not Iranian.

History has the tendency to repeat itself. Thirty years after the revolution, once again, Iran has no protesters but now every single Iranian is a god-fearing revolutionary. Protesters are still not Iranian.

Better yet some of the protesters are people who have been tricked by foreign countries and terrorist organizations into vandalism and participating in illegal gatherings.

I live in Tehran and I do not have a clue as to what is going on in other cities in my country. I am certain that people living in other parts of Iran are also clueless as to what has been happening in the capital. Courtesy of state media some may even be convinced that a few ‘disgruntled kids’ are vandalizing the city because no one will listen to them.

It is an insult to our intelligence when everyone knows the country is struggling with a crisis and there is violence on the streets every day but five of the six national channels show movies non-stop and the sixth one shows news from a crisis-free Iran and occasionally a 1-minute clip of hooligans vandalizing the city.

I do not know which Iran they come from but the Iran I come from has angry people out on the streets every night, lighting bonfires to fight the tear gas used by the riot police; the Iran I come from has seen its youth beaten up every day and the Tehran I live in has seen its streets covered with blood once more — something we were promised 30 years ago would never happen again by the very same revolutionaries who are calling the shots today.

It is ironic that a system that was founded because of the people’s anger toward an oppressive monarchy is now making the very same mistakes made by the Shah of Iran.

It is a disgrace to see the system that condemned what the shah of Iran did — killing people to silence their voices — is now doing the same.

If the Shah declared martial law to paralyze the people, today, the very same Iranian authorities, who have always talked about the hardships they endured to spare us, the future generations, the pain of oppression, are now paralyzing us and imposing martial law.

However, this is the age of technology and therefore their martial law has been tailored to fit the new age. Instead of directly imposing restrictions on movement, they restrict our contact with the outside world and make contacting one another painfully difficult.

The biggest post revolutionary horror story has always been the one about the Shah’s secret service, SAVAK; fast forward to Tehran today: The so-called ‘nameless soldiers of the hidden Imam’ (intelligence forces) who are exemplary for their ‘compassion and vigilance in uncovering terrorist plots’ have been unleashed to penetrate the ranks of the people, gather information and make arrests.

My question is, if they are so quick at uncovering “enemy plots” and so great at “controlling borders so that enemy agents cannot infiltrate the country and carry out their evil plots,” and if they are so ‘competent in protecting the country’s stability and security’ and if thanks to their efforts there is no problem regarding the possession of illegal firearms in Iran; how does this correspond with the claims that enemy elements have infiltrated the ranks of the people and are carrying out enemy plots, and that enemy elements are using illegal firearms to shoot protesters and frame the Iranian police.

And if the people who have taken to the streets are all enemy agents and we Iranians all know that most of the protesters are university students, how is it that these ‘nameless soldiers of the hidden Imam’ have not realized until now that all the students in this country are enemy agents?

I want to know, how is it that security forces claim they have not been given permission to shoot protesters and only when worse comes to worse shots to the lower part of the body are permissible, yet every single person shot by the security forces has been hit in the head or heart?

I respect that in all countries riot police are responsible for the restoration of order, but I cannot defend the unlawful actions of the civil force tasked with enforcing the law.

I want to know why Iranian youth must pay the price for the bitter political power struggle escalating between two ‘senior revolutionary figures’?

Iranians did not revolt to wake up three-decades later and see everything that they stood up for, every freedom and change they fought for, paid the price for in blood, is no longer.

The hypocrites, who secretly hijacked the popular revolution of Iran and imposed their will on us, have now dropped all pretense and are openly handing us the ‘royal treatment’ still fresh in the minds of countless Iranians.

How can they sleep at night knowing what they know and doing what they do?

We have reached the point of no return. It is no longer the restoration of order when ‘tanks have been brought out’ to combat civilians on the streets.

I meet with my students on Saturdays for a private class. We cook and eat together, then talk of philosophy. This time there is no class. We only try to keep up our morale. We are very determined but scared. That is how I can describe most of the people who came out to attend the demonstration today. After the Supreme Leader’s fierce speech at the Friday prayers, we knew that today we would be different. We feel so vulnerable, more than ever, but at the same time are aware of our power. No matter how strong it is collectively, it will do little to protect us today. We could only take our bones and flesh to the streets and expose them to batons and bullets. Two different feelings fight inside me without mixing with one another. To live or to just be alive, that’s the question.

There is another student who would have her lunch with us, but is not coming to the demonstration. She’s too scared and while pretending to be in control bursts into tears. She says she hates to see people suffer. We tell here we have suffered for years. She says she doesn’t want people to die. I tell her tens of thousands die each year on the roads in Iran, at least this time it would be for a good cause. She says we are elites and can save ourselves for better times when we can be more useful. We reply there is no difference between people when we are all in such a condition.

We finish the lunch and sit to read poems of Mirzadeh Eshgi. That’s what I suggest. He was a revolutionary anarchist at the time of Constitutional Revolution 1906-11, killed for speaking out. It fits our situation. Poems play an important role here. Nothing influences Iranians like poetry. And these days, everything is about influence and fear.

The poems we read are bitter, ironical and they make us laugh. When sorrow is more than you can tolerate, you burst into laughter. Then we get going. It’s a quarter to four. But the following hour proves funnier than we expected.

In the bus everybody is going to the same place. All the streets to Enghlab Square are blocked. Guards tell you where to go and where not to go. They show us a small street that leads to Enghlab. I panic: Why have they left it open? Do they want us to go in and surround us? Two demonstrations were taking place, one in Enghelab and the other in Azadi, respectively meaning, ‘revolution’ and ‘freedom’. I tell my students, ‘We’re recycling the names.’

Enghlab is busy, very busy, but there is no demonstration. People show the V sign with their fingers but walk in silence. In front of Tehran University, I see the students inside, clutching the rails of the gates, as if behind bars. They shout. But I can’t hear them. In front of the students on the sidewalk, on the other side of the bars, there are two rows of anti-riot police and a row of Basij militia holding posters insulting the demonstrators of the previous days. One says, ‘The trouble-makers pertain to MI6’. An hour later, when the street is no longer so crowded, I go to the guy holding the poster and ask him, ‘What is MI6?’ ‘Britain’s intelligent service’, he replies. ‘Is it different from Scotland Yard?’ I ask. ‘No, they’re the same thing.’ ‘Oh, I see.’

We walk up and down. We’re a group of four. We find friends, but don’t join them. We don’t want to change the mood by changing our companionship. We’re enjoying ourselves.

Then comes the attraction of the day. Two water-spraying machines. They’re huge, the size of a bus but taller, with fenced windows and two water-guns on top of each. We burst into laughter. They don’t know how to use them. They shoot second floor windows, anti-riot police and the people, including girls in tight manteaus. It’s more Zurich than Tehran. One machine is stuck. They don’t know how to drive it. It’s a hot day, the sun is intolerably shiny and it feels good to become wet. Much of the time, the sprays are not powerful. It’s as if they’re watering grass. And it just does not fit the horror that’s in the air, the aggression with which the people are hit with batons. A beautiful day. It has been beautiful throughout the past week. You wonder whether nature is ironical.

They push the crowd back and forth, from here to there but soon realize people are on all sides. We hear bullets, but people don’t rush away. They’re fake. Nobody’s shot.

Then in a couple of minutes, the street is not crowded as before, the anti-riot police leave, and the students are gone. We don’t understand why. Deprived of communication, you never get the big picture. Maybe they have attacked the university from the back.

We hear in Azadi Square there’s a huge crowd. So we get going. As we pass the fences, a student, his face covered, smiles bitterly, ‘They’ll storm the dormitory tonight.’

We have to walk. We feel awful. There’s a demonstration somewhere and we can’t get there. We wish we were in a crowd. That’s the only way we feel better. We have joked for hours now, but we need to shout. Something is pressing from within.

Then at Towhid Square the scene changes drastically. The streets to Azadi are blocked. But this time, people don’t change their path. They fight for it. There’s a shower of stones. Tear gas. Fire. People jam the sidewalks. The battle scene is huge. We cannot see the limits but it extends to nearby street. My student is keener to go forward than I am. Her mother could persuade her to stay home for two days, but now allows her to go out on the most dangerous day. The people shout, ‘Down with the dictator’. The anti-riot police are also throwing stones. People don’t run back anymore. I grab a broken brick and throw. I’m amazed. I never thought I’d do it. I should practice. It was a very bad shot. I grab another one, the size of a pomegranate and keep it with me, hiding it behind my back. My feeling is a mixture of a university teacher and a hooligan.

If we want to go forward we need to pass through tear gas. So we ask a car to give us a lift. Then there is an attack. They cannot tell enemy from other people although they want to show everything is fine and they’re only after trouble-makers. There is a woman who is being beaten. She’s horrified and hysterical but not as much as the anti-riot police officer facing her. She shrieks, ‘Where can I go? You tell me go down the street and you beat me. Then you come up from the other side and beat me again. Where can I go?’ In sheer desperation, the officer hits his helmet several times hard with his baton. ‘Damn me! Damn me! What the hell do I know!’

I ask myself, ‘how much longer can these officers tolerate stress? How many among them would be willing to give their lives for somebody like Ahmadinejhad?’

The driver tells us that he did not vote but he has come out to the streets to beat the Basijis. At each intersection he is guided by officers in a different direction and after a while we realize we are back where we started. We see officers load people in a van used for carrying frozen meat. Then a couple of minutes later, a new scene unfolds. We get out. Here’s a true battleground. And this time it’s huge. Columns of smoke rise to the sky. You can hardly see the asphalt. Only bricks and stones. Here people have the upper hand. Three lanes, the middle one separated by opaque fences, under construction for the metro. The workers have climbed up the fences and show the V sign. They start throwing stone and timber to the street to supply the armament. I tell myself, ‘Look at the poor, the ones Ahmadinejhad always speaks of.’ But the president’s name is no longer in fashion. This time the slogans address the leader, something unheard of in the past three decades. It’s a beautiful sunset, with rays of light penetrating evening clouds. We feel safe among people moving back forth with the anti-riot police attacks.

Two Basiji motorcyles are burning. People have learnt how to do it fast. They lay the motorcycle on its side, spilling the gasoline and lighting it on fire. We climb up a pedestrian bridge and watch. People shout from the bridge, ‘Down with Khamenei’ and ‘your aura is gone for good’. A Basiji is caught: He soon disappears under the crowd beating him. As if in a roman coliseum those on the bridge shout, ‘Beat him up!’ I shout with them before coming to my senses. What is with me? He staggers away as a group of ten people kick and punch him.

At Gisha, there’s a similar scene. Again the people have the whole crossing in their control and you can hear the uproar and horns. Motorcycles are burning in smoke. But I’m suddenly stunned. I see a red object, which later proves to be a man, about 50, his head covered with blood, crouching, people passing him by as if he was a garbage can. Then comes a guy with a long stick who wants to beat up the already beaten Basiji. People gather and stop him. He’s furious, ‘Why should I not? They beat tiny girls! They beat everyone! Bastard!’

I shout at him, ‘But we’re not beasts! We’re not like them!’ Somebody takes the Basiji away as people curse him. I think, ‘But the bastard deserves it. To come out of your house in the morning, just to beat up people you don’t even know.’ I don’t recognize myself and my feelings anymore.

You can get in any car to go back home. People trust one another now. The woman in the back seat sitting next to me says, ‘It’s no longer about Mousavi or election results. We have suffered for thirty years. We didn’t live a life.’ An old man next to her offers me fresh bread. They tell jokes about the political figures and laugh out loud. They feel victorious. ‘I had waited thirty years for this. Now I feel relieved.’ She writes down my phone number to send me news. ‘Send it to The Guardian!’, she says.

I feel guilty because I've been back in the UK for a week now (visiting family) and I have shied away from posting. I guess I've been away from technology for so long (and enjoyed the freedom!) that I don't want to get addicted again. I've found myself checking my inbox one too many times... for what? I haven't even sent an email to be replied to! So this is it... my "Dear John"...

I won't be back on any kind of regular basis. I will however keep my blog alive and I hope that I will still get some new comments as I still love to read them.

I will be forever grateful to those blogger friends whom I have had regular blogging contact with, I'm sure you all know who you are. You have all pulled me through a lonely and rough ride over the last year. I would be happy to give you my email if you want to stay in touch.

Since being back in India I have realised I am less in control of the issues that my blog focused on, which at first was hard for me because of the dramatic contrasts in culture. I have had to let a lot of things go and follow the easy routes just to keep sane!

When you are living in a world where it is normal to look a child beggar, carrying a screaming baby, in the eye and know that you are helpless, the issues you once cared for melt away.

I don't need to worry about whether I am eating organic vegetables, because Sainsbury's aren't there to hold my hand and tell me they are looking after me.

I don't need to worry about re-cycling, because there are no council workers there to prosecute me if I mix my plastic and paper. I do however know that somewhere along the line, a dirty child will rummage through my waste and claim every last scrap of re-cyclable rubbish to keep her family alive.

Don't think that I don't care anymore, because I do. I just have to change my attitude to fit with the culture I live in now. Indians do care, they really do. They are the most caring, hospitable and patriotic people I have met. They know what they can do and they know what is beyond their everyday control. They are patriotic in a way that the British could never be. They think of themselves as a big family, who are in it together, who can grow and learn from each others mistakes. There is no sense of superiority or super power, they are proud to be Indian and proud for what it stands for. It's a selfless pride that comes from their hearts and is so big it spills out in front of your eyes.